The Newt Whisperer

My son-in-law is a newt whisperer. When he was here recently, he discovered at least two newts in the big stone water trough, secretly keeping tabs on the the midwife toad. It seems that wherever he goes, newts appear. This is by no means the first time this has happened; maybe he keeps them in his pockets. The midwife toad still peeps in the afternoons, but there were several days of silence after we introduced a second midwife toad to the trough, rescued from under the Olympic sized paddling pool. For a while, after normal peeping service was resumed, we enjoyed two-toned peeping from the pair, but I notice today that there is only one peeper again. Ships that pass in the night. On the Chris Packham front, we have been visited this week by the following wildlife: giant jays, red squirrels, deer and a hoopoe. There have also been two identical earwig incidents. Once while mowing, and then the next day while hammocking, I felt a sharp nip on my arm then ankle, only to be confronted by a large, irritated earwig. It could have been the same attacker on both occasions. Earwigs do look very similar... They left no mark or itchy patch. Which is more than I can say about my other assailant, the (cart) horse fly, which has left possibly the itchiest fifty pence piece-sized lump on my thigh. 

And while I'm on the subject of skin irritations, I was pulling up some yellow-flowered weeds that were choking one of my grape vines, when I found myself spattered in toxic orange liquid. This is apparently what the Greater Celandine does... And I've now read that all parts of the plant are highly poisonous! Well, that explains why I had to rush to remove the orange latex with cold water and soap, as it started to burn my skin after only a few seconds' contact. ('If ingested, dropsy may result'- what's that?! I don't want to suffer from dropsy- it sounds so Victorian!) Its vivid orange pigment doesn't wash out of white cotton, I know that. I'm fairly multicoloured these days, what with green feet from mowing in flip flops, and black hands from pruning (cutting down) walnut trees. 

And while I'm on the subject of orange, or Orange, more precisely, after a most spectacular electric storm last Thursday night, which we watched with gaping faces at the windows as it lit up the hills, mountains and valleys on all sides for several hours, we were left internet and phonelineless. Until yesterday afternoon. That's nearly a week without communication. (Yes, we could still talk... that's true.) Each time we telephoned Orange to check on progress, they gave us long stories of how the engineers were working through the night in the mountains in order to restore our service, and that of the rest of this part of the Correze.

And while I'm on the subject of communication, Kevin has been fiddling with his satellite dish, and it's taking up quite a lot of time. He was given a monster-sized dish, around about the size of a golfing umbrella at full stretch. I'm worried it could be the reason we have so many military jets flying over us. It's a great plate with a tripod angling a receptor thingy at its centre. He has coaxial leads, a signal finder, a freeview box, a TV, but can we get even the tiniest portion of sound or vision? No. But Kevin is not a quitter. The part of the process where we listen to the signal finder squealing, and watch its little needle shoot up and down as we move the dish a hair's breadth one way or the other is probably the best part. But to see his little disappointed face when he rushes expectantly to the TV only to find the message, 'weak or no signal', is quite sad. He keeps muttering about Astra2 and Hotbird, satellites that will bring him what he needs... apparently. And that is British television... I think.

And while I'm on the subject of British television, we can't receive any, so we were forced into Tulle on Monday evening to watch England play Iceland. Now, most restaurants and bars in Tulle are closed on Mondays, so we were lucky to find one bar that was open AND showing the football. Once we had settled on our seats at the bar, beer in hand, and it was established by all that we were British, the bar owner got the bar man to pass us a box of tissues. He clearly had a premonition of what was about to take place. And it was shrivellingly embarrassing. We allowed ourselves a little puff of superiority when the first England penalty safely reached the back of the net, and then, still puffed up by this, Kevin popped next door to order some food (you're allowed to bring it into the bar to eat if they are not serving food at that time, and they weren't, so we did). When he returned, just a few seconds later, Iceland had scored a proper goal, and, as you may know, it all went swiftly downhill from there. We stood up to leave at the end of the match. The French stood too, and came to hug us and offer condolences. Sweet. I did try to play my Scottish hand again, but one man said kindly, 'But that is worse...' I didn't feel competent enough with my French to find out why he thought that...

And while I'm on the subject of competency in French and being Scottish, I had quite a sustained conversation with a French lady in Gamm Vert this week. She asked if the plant I was carrying was fragrant. I asked her to sniff it and see what she thought. We both agreed that it didn't have much of a fragrance, but it had the most vibrant colour. She asked if it was for my house or garden. I told her it was a present for a friend. She then said, 'You're not French, are you?' I told her I was originally from Scotland, but had lived in England for most of my life. She then gave me a little smile and turned away.

I could make a 'while I'm on the subject...' link, but I sense you're growing tired of that. So, now some photos that document a day of hard labour at a secret location, where Julia, our estate agent, now good friend, has acquired a lake and some woodland. So magnetic and irresistible is Julia's charm, that she managed to secure the help of a gang of Brits, and two Australians, to help clear the lakeside. We gathered at a certain city centre in the early morning, equipped with chain saws, strimmers and choppers of all sizes, and drove in convoy to the lake. We worked so hard, chopping and clearing and have since been awarded 'Freedom of the Lake' certificates. It's pre-Napoleonic, and is identified in dusty old land registry documents, so that's quite an honour! She is installing a cabin; it's the perfect place for a quiet fishing trip!

And while I'm on the subject of felling trees, inspired by Julia's lake clearance day, we decided to fell the big holly tree at the front of cottage #1. It blocks light, it sheds nasty prickles on the lawn, and I need some holly wood for my kitchen surfaces. Old folk lore would have it that it's unlucky to fell a holly tree, but we'll have to take that risk. Holly wood is one of the whitest of woods. Incidentally, Harry Potter's wand was carved from holly wood, with a phoenix feather core, one of Fawkes', to be precise.

When the tree fell, it left a wand sticking up.

You may be wondering why there is no mention and there are no photos of advancing works on the cottage. That's because we've had to learn a lesson. When grouting walls and ceilings with cement, don't just wipe it all over with a damp sponge and leave it to dry. No. Clean every tiny smear of cement off the tiles straight away, otherwise, you will spend two weeks with scourers and vinegar trying to make the tiles clean. They're still not entirely clean, but there is a HUGE improvement! I'll let you see soon...

And the kitchen? Not much progress there, but plans have changed again! We're still afraid of the fireplace and chimney; we boarded it over while the family were visiting, but now it has to be unmasked again. Ho hum.